


He Can't Change for Love

by partypo1son



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Angst, Anorexia, Anorexic!Gerard, Frank Iero/Gerard Way - Freeform, Frerard, Hospital, Love, M/M, Mental Illness, Perfectionism, Self-Hatred, my chemical romance - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-11 17:53:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7063810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/partypo1son/pseuds/partypo1son
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard is undeserving of anything good the world has to offer. He meets someone that makes him believe otherwise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Calm Before the Storm

He Can't Change for Love Chapter 1: Calm Before the Storm  
The gray covers caress me in the dwindling warmth of sleep. A full five hours, impressive for me. As soon as I gain a somewhat sense of consiousness I hear in the back of my mind that voice that has been my best friend for the past five years.  
"Wake up, fatass. Time to shine."  
I groan and roll out of my bed, savoring the warmth and the ignorance of sleep for one last moment. My alarm goes off, blaring what sounds like words almost saying "GET. YOUR. ASS. DOWN. STAIRS." I always wake before my alarm can catch me sleeping, a habit I know I could break with some heavy sleeping pills but I know I don't deserve them.  
I swing my ginormous legs over the side of my bed and stand up, expecting the ground to become cozy with me soon and bracing myself for it. My eyes rush with the familiar black haze and gravity tries to knock me off my feet, but I can fend it off. I come out of the haze and make my way to my parents bathroom. Tip-toeing past their bed, I make it there and silently close the door behind me. I strip down and step on the digital scale on the fancy marble floor.  
98.4 pounds, the scale drawls to me, enticing me with it's allure. half of a pound down from yesterday, not bad. I put my clothes back on my body, my fat rolls jiggling as I clumsily hop around on the floor, trying to get my pants on. Once I am assembled, I turn off the light and make my way out. I think I'm in the clear when I hear my father's groggy voice behind me.  
"Gerard, what's your excuse today?"  
"I needed a bar of soap."  
"I'm sure you did," he replies as he rolls over and continues sleeping. I dont blame him, after all it is four thirty in the morning.  
Already in my running attire, I make my way down the stairs to see my worn-out running shoes sitting on the second-to-last step, beckoning me. Within a few moments I am downstairs, in my basement, with my old friend the treadmill, given to me as a gift when I was thirteen, when my parents started investing in my "health kick." What a blissful time, I recall. I remember first trying it out and not being able to even get through a mile without getting winded, my fat bouncing up and down as I slammed my feet, step after step, on the treadmill. Those were the days.  
I press the button that reads "9" and begin my trek. It is quite boring, as I dont allow myself to listen to music or watch the television, but that is what I deserve for taking up so much space on this planet. I drone on and on, counting out the steps to make the ordeal all the more torturous. "9997, 9998, 9999, 10000," I fire on, and finally allow myself to look down at the timer on the treadmill panel. Right around there, but I go five more minutes as punishment for looking at the timer before I I reached the hour mark.  
I make my way back up the seemingly neverending stairs, and the black spots make a comeback. I hold on to the railing for a moment to make sure that I don't fall. Fall equals faint, faint equals hospital, hospital equals food, food equals loss of control. The little black dots in my eyes fade, and I continue my way up the stairs.  
The frigid water feels like knives against my back, something I have never quite gotten used to. Remember, this is what you deserve. I lather the soap onto my body gingerly, making sure to get the cuts on my arms and wrists, making sure they are clean, yet fresh and singing. After exactly three minutes of just standing under the freezing water, I turn the knob to shut it off. I climb out of the shower in my own bathroom and towel dry my hair and body. I step out of the bathroom with the towel wrapped around my chest down to my legs so that i wouldn't expose myself, even though my parents would be asleep for another hour or so.  
Unwrapping the towel from my body, I examine the horrid thing I see in the mirror. I wrap my fingers around my thighs sighing in relief that I can still touch my middle fingers and thumbs, just like last night and yesterday afternoon and yesterday morning and all of those times that I went to the bathroom to do jumping jacks bodycheck. Good. I count my ribs and feel my collarbones, not nearly as prominent as I would like. Sighing, I tear my eyes away from the monster that I see in the mirror.  
It is nearly summer, yet I dress in the heavier clothing that the school uniform shop has to offer. I would wish upon no one the terrible misfortune that is the sight of my grotesque, obese body. I don't even bother to look at my hair, I know it looks like shit anyways. My journal sits on the nightstand right next to my bed, and out of habit I decide to check what it is that I will allow myself to eat for breakfast, yet I have it ingrained in my mind, 10 strawberries (40).  
I make my way down the staircase, and I decide that I need to walk up and down it five more times before I allow myself to eat. My bones ache as I make my way up and down, up and down. I relish in this feeling, it means that my body is breaking down from inside out. Finishing my reps, I take the longest route around my house to get to the kitchen. An additional 17 steps to burn off the calories that I need to peel off my body like old wallpaper.  
My hand grips around the stainless steel refrigerator, void of pictures of family barbecues and cousins that I've last seen five years ago. I slowly grab the the carton of strawberries, my allowance for the week. I count out ten and rinse them for one minute. I start the process of cutting the strawberries in halves one by one, taking as slowly as I can, then grab a small white bowl from the cabinet. Taking the halves and placing them in the bowl, I walk to the cutlery drawer and grab the smallest silver fork in it. I then walk my way to the counter and set the bowl down on the island, and take a seat.  
I pick up the tiny fork and spear a strawberry halve and raise it to my mouth, and I start chewing. I don't allow myself to think about how good and sweet the strawberries taste, that is forbidden. I chew the halve precisely twenty times, so that it passes through my system easily. I want to be squeaky clean on the inside, as if I were to take all of the emotions inside of me and leave a clean, hollow shell. I do this with the next halve, and the next, until soon all that is left of the strawberries are the the sweet red stain on the porcelain bowl. It looks like blood on a pure white surface, a scene I am ever so familiar with.  
It took precisely twenty-six minutes to eat the strawberries, and now it is around six-thirty, the time when most of my classmates are just waking up. I slide out of my chair and walk around the island to get to the sink. I wash off my bowl, and then walk to the cabinet to retrieve a box of cornflakes. I pour a few into the bowl, put the cereal back, then grab the milk out of the fridge. After splashing a small amount of milk into the bowl, I set it into the sink. For the finishing touch, I take a spoon out of the drawer and place it into the bowl.  
Though I have been doing this every morning for a year, I am sure my parents have caught on to the fact that I "go through" the small box once per month. They don't seem to know what to do with this knowledge.  
The journey back up the stairs is a quicker one now, I know my father has gotten into the shower as I heard the water running mid-chew. I pass my little brother Mikey's room, and stop to stare at him for a moment. He seems so peaceful and content. I snap out of my fantasy and tip-toe to my room, grab my backpack, make my way back downstairs, and head out the door to begin my two mile walk to school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for reading this, it is my first fic! I have had it in mind for so long and it is based off of my own experiences with anorexia and hospitalization. Please let me know if you like it and if you would like me to update consistently ;)  
> -partypo1son


	2. A Day in the Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the life of Gerard, a perfectionistic anorexic.

He Can’t Change for Love Chapter 2:

A bead of sweat rolls down my forehead as I march my way through the school parking lot. I attend a snotty, pretentious parochial school called Belleville Brothers of Christianity. Trust me, it is as horrible as it sounds.  
I climb up the stairs, seeing stars once more, and slink through the wide, open doors of the school. The bathroom is right near the entrance, so I make a beeline there to do some jumping jacks before I must sit on my ass all day. I make my way to the corner of the bathroom, in between the urinals and the stalls, and start my repetitions of jumping jacks until I reach five-hundred.  
After I finished, I noticed I was already decently sweaty on my forehead again. The paper-towel dispenser was right next to the mirror, so that meant I would have to see my reflection in it in order to acquire a towel. I brace myself for the grotesque creature that stares back at me.  
I see a shell of lard, fat lumps rolling over in my sweater. I lift up said sweater to check on my torso and stomach. Still fat, I think to myself. I pull down the sweater and wipe my face off one last time before exiting the bathroom.  
The warning bell goes off, and I remember that I need to get to class at least thirty seconds before everyone else, or else I risk my goody-two-shoes status. First block is… math? Math. Lately things slip my mind, no matter how routine they are. I don’t like it. I’m usually always on-top of things. That’s what I’m known for; being the person who always does everything with precision and perfection.  
I enter the math room, and to my relief I am the second one there. My math teacher, Mrs. Webb, is standing at her podium collecting study guides that we had to complete last week. I already had mine handed back to me, as I handed it in three days before it was due for extra credit. A nice one-hundred-and-four was written neatly in red on the pristine white paper.  
Before I knew it, all zero of my friends were in the class. I haven't always not had friends, but they used to always offer me pizza and junk that absolutely cannot enter my body, and I guess they became sick of me just sitting in the corner and rejecting their offers.  
Mrs Webb began the class by handing out the rest of the study guides, giving each student a “Well done!,” or a “You could have done better.” After all of the papers are distributed she makes her way to the front of the class room and starts droning on about the final next Tuesday. I already know everything to study and understand it well, but I decide to listen anyway so that I don't offend her.  
My mind had other plans. The nagging came back again.  
“Those strawberries were larger than the average, fatass. You should go to the bathroom and do one-hundred more jumping jacks just to make sure.”  
I hesitated, but obliged. I raised my hand and asked if I may use the restroom. She was in the middle of ranting about quadratic equations, a subject she new I was fully capable of performing excellently in if tested on it, so she waved her hand, giving me the signal to use the bathroom.  
I make my way down the hall to the bathroom, and do the one-hundred jumping jacks I was enlisted to do.  
I come out of the bathroom a few moments later, thanking my parents silently for providing me with good deodorant. There are a few boys in the hallway that I hoped to pass without incident. As per usually when it comes to these situations, my hopes were shattered.  
One large, muscular boy with a buzzcut shoved me into the locker next to me, shouting “scrawny faggot,” after me as I scuttled my way back to the classroom. “Scrawny?’’ That’s new. It used to be along the lines of “Fatass,” and “Ginormous Gerard.” I don’t know what inspired the change in expletives, but I’d rather the current insults than the latter.  
The block ended soon enough, and soon after that was lunch. I always take this opportunity to walk laps around the school, so I head to the main changing room to retrieve my running shoes in order to do so.  
After that was my favorite class, Nutrition and Wellness. It gave me the opportunity to meticulously count calories and fat grams and not be judged for it. Today we were handed a study guide for the final on Wednesday, which I knew I would ace with no problem. We were given the remaining half-hour to work on this packet. I started writing, and the questions were ridiculously easy. I answered half of the fifty-question packet within the thirty minutes.  
After Nutrition and Wellness was AP U.S. History, which is too boring to even discuss. Before I knew it, I was on my walk back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this is a bit boring, I am trying to build up the suspense for later. Thank you to everyone for reading and giving me kudos! It is very appreciated!  
> -Party Po1son


	3. Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are heating up as Gerard's family comes to grip with his illness.

He Can’t Change for Love Chapter 3: Brothers

After the packets for History and Nutrition were completed, I noticed that something was cooking. The wafting scent of… pasta? Pasta I believed it was. Maybe my mom was making something for the family, me excluded obviously. I make my own dinner at exactly five-thirty.  
I heard her rummaging around in the kitchen, the sound of her tapping a spoon against the pot, assumingly to rid it of excess sauce, reminded me of the days of fat-and-out-of-control Gerard. On nights like these I would always go back for seconds.  
Then something strange happened, something that never happens. My mother called my name, followed with the words “come down for dinner!” For a second I almost laughed, as if it were a joke, and then the fear set in. She made me dinner I thought, and she expects me to eat it followed. I left my room, padded down the stairs, and greeted my mother’s nervous smile as she stared at me, holding a ginormous plate of pasta (200) with marinara sauce (70), broccoli (31) and chicken (140), totaling in four-hundred-and-forty-one calories that she (seemingly) expected me to consume.   
I must have looked odd as I was analyzing that information in my head, because my brother and my father were staring at me. My father motioned towards the table, and beckoned for me to sit at the table.   
“I came home a little early so we could all sit together and have a chat.” he said, and coughed nervously.  
“I’m not hungry,” I replied as I made a beeline back upstairs. My father called after me with more severity in his voice. He was up from the table and grabbing my arm in lighting timing.  
“Please Gerard,” he almost begged, “we have to talk about this.”   
I am so utterly confused at this point. What does he mean by that? What did I do to upset them this much? I slowly made my way to the dining room and sat down at one of the cushioned chairs. Admittedly, it felt nice to sit down, as I had not since last block (calories burned=95 more than if I were sitting).  
As my mother placed the mountain of food in front of me, my heart dropped. Why are they doing this? Why do they want me to stay fat? My father sat once more at the table with his plate, followed by my mother with hers, but not my brother. He was already sitting with his also ginormous plate. I haven't been around to see him eat for so long… does he eat everything there? He can’t, he's too thin to. I silently wished that I was as thin as Mikey.  
“Gerard, would you like to say the blessing,” my father inquired. I rattled off the prayer that I haven't said in over a year, for obvious reasons. Everyone at the table picked up their forks and started eating, except for me.  
“Gerard, we’ve been thinking about your… issues for a while now, and we came to the conclusion that we must talk to you about them,” my mother said, taking glances between my father and I. Before I had time to think about what she meant, my father followed her statement.   
“We have decided that you are going to stop this diet of yours and put on some weight.”   
My mind was scrambling. GAIN weight? This must be a joke. Why are they trying to sabotage me? The following words were equally as terrifying.  
“Gerard we expect you to eat everything on that plate,”  
I looked at them confusedly.  
“No.” I replied.  
My father dropped his calm yet stern demeanor and I could tell that this night was not going to end well.  
“What do you mean no? Do you know that there are children in Africa that would kill to have what you have in front of you?’’  
I didn’t reply.  
“Gerard, stop with the nonsense and pick up the damn fork! I did not come home an hour early to be greeted by my family with this.”  
Fuck fuck fuck fuck. I’m such a horrible, disrespectful son, I thought to myself. Why can’t they understand that I just can’t do this?   
A tear streams down my face.  
“Oh come on Gerard, man up.”   
“Donald, that’s crossing a line”  
“It needs to be said, Donna.”  
They kept bickering over how offensive my father’s command was to me while I planned my great escape.  
“I’m really not hungry, please don’t make me eat.” I pleaded.  
This time it was my mother who made a move. She rose from the table and picked up the plate sitting in front of me and in one quick move, dumped the contents of it into the trash can. She said no words to me as I got up and sprinted up the stairs into my room. You dodged a bullet there, lardass I thought to myself as I immediately started doing push-ups to punish myself for disrespecting my parents.  
~  
“What are you talking about, Donna? Our son is not anorexic. That kind of thing doesn’t happen to boys.”  
“I’ve done my research. He fits every single criteria for it. I think we should take him to a psychiatrist and have him-  
“Donna, I will not have my son diagnosed with a girl’s disease, and that is final.”  
I heard him stomp up the stairs, and I quietly shut my bedroom door. Thoughts buzzed around in my head like angry wasps. Psychiatrist. Diagnosed. Criteria. Anorexic. All of these words make no sense to me. Why would I need help if I'm not ill? Why have my parents started tip-toeing around me like a land-mine?  
I drop the subject in my mind. They seem terrified of the notion that I actually could be mentally ill, so they won’t do anything about it, especially my father. Now that I come to think of it, maybe I am starving myself, but it doesn’t matter because that is what I deserve. I deserve hell for taking up so much space on this earth, and for being so fat and lazy.  
While I am in the midst of dwelling over this, I hear a knock at my door. I think to myself, maybe if I don’t answer they will assume I am asleep, but alas they knock again. I feel obliged to answer the door, so I do. Standing in my bedroom doorway is Mikey. This surprises me, as we rarely speak anymore.   
He stands there for a second, and then he shocks me by enveloping me in his lanky arms. I notice that he starts weeping silently. He whispers into my chest words that frighten and confuse me.   
“Please don’t die Gerard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of brotherly love at the end of the chapter, don't worry you will be seeing more of Mikey and Gerard's relationship as the fic progresses!  
> -partypo1son


	4. Oh, Take Me from the Hospital Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerard's family realizes the severity of his illness and takes him to the hospital.

He Can’t Change for Love Chapter 4: Oh, Take Me from the Hospital Bed

Mikey unraveled his arms from around my waist and then awkwardly retreated back into his room. I don’t know how to feel about that encounter… happy? Scared? Loved? I think I’ll go with the latter, as I haven’t experienced this emotion from another person in so long. You don’t deserve to feel loved, remember? I change my mind, now I’m scared.   
Does he actually think I am going to die? I don’t want to have this stress on someone so young. Mikey is only twelve. He I know doesn't deserve the thought of a brother, as horrible as I am, dying prematurely. The thing is though; Why? Why does he think I’m close to death? I’m not emaciated, I’m not even thin. I’m fat, actually, so why is everyone concerned that I’m starving myself to death?  
The answer eludes me, so I decide to “sleep” on it, aka lay awake in my bed for an hour and then drift off. I usually have bad dreams, but none that I remember can amount to this one.  
I am in a bed, dressed in a hospital gown, with nurses surrounding me in old-fashioned attire. One of them is holding my hand. There is a television in the room, and an odd figure plays on it. Piano music is playing in the background of my dream, just notes without chords. I notice that there is an IV in my arm, and I try to yank it out, but another nurse is holding me down. Suddenly, the nurse holding my hand has a thin, long tube in the hand that isn’t holding mine. She says no words as she shoves it down into my nose, going down my throat. I gag and gasp for air, but the intrusion is too much for me.  
As if I thought that I could help the situation, I reach into the air. I reach as if there were a handle or something that I could grab, and it would take me out of this place. Suddenly, the walls of the room fall, and I wake up from my sleep, gasping for breath. I touch my face, my nose especially, to make sure there is no intrusion. I sigh as I remember it was just a nightmare.  
I look over at my clock, which reads four-fifteen. I might as well start my day a bit earlier. I creep into my parents bathroom, shed my clothes, and step on the scale as I do every morning. 95 pounds exactly. I am confused as to how I can lose upwards three pounds in one day. I step off and back onto the scale once more, but it reads the same thing. My stomach does flips and I want to do a little dance. I did it, I think to myself, I hit my goal weight.  
I step out of the bathroom with an odd sense of confidence, only to see my mother sitting at the foot of the bed, starring at me. I honestly have no excuse now, so I just nervously stare back at her.  
“Gerard you need to stop this.”  
“Stop what exactly,” I reply.  
“Well, starving yourself for one, I can see you spiraling into a really dark place.”  
“I’m fine,” I mumble as I attempt to walk out the door, but gravity has other plans. The black spots dance quickly in front of my eyes, but not in a slow waltz like I’m used to. They now dance as if they are in some nightclub, so many of them. I slip, and I descend towards the ground. Someone catches me, someone shorter than I. I wonder who it is as I slip into darkness.  
I come to consciousness with both of my parents standing in front of me.  
“Gerard either you drink some orange juice or I’m driving you to the hospital.” My mother is a former nurse , much to my dismay in this situation, as she knows exactly what to do.  
“Mom, I’m fine. Really, people faint all the time”   
“Not because they don’t eat anything, Gerard! Now I will be back in a minute.   
She returns with a large glass of full-sugar orange juice. She holds it out for me. I can’t do this.  
After I don’t take the glass for a minute, she pulls me up, but I start to fall again. This time my father supports me. One of my fat arms is around my father, the other around my mother. Before I know it, I am in my mother’s grey minivan.  
My mother and father are discussing that my dad was to stay with Mikey, and that is all I could gather from the situation. It was as if I were in that period right before I fall asleep, where you just can’t keep your eyes open, but more intense and paired with a migraine.  
We are driving. Every bump in the road feels like a mountain. My mother is talking to someone on the phone, saying something about having a wheelchair ready for me. The hospital is a short distance from my house, so we arrive quickly, just as one of my mother’s nursing friends brings out a wheelchair for me.  
I am practically lifted into the chair by my mother and the nurse. I recognize the hallway that I am being wheeled, with great speed, down. My mother used to take me here every once in a while to pick up prescriptions or meet her co-workers. We pass a sign labeled “Emergency Room.” I know that I am in deep trouble now. I lose consciousness once more, drifting away into peaceful silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much suspense! This, once again, is based off of my own hospitalization. Comment if you know what the dream is based off of!


End file.
